“You say that every time,” she says.
“And every time I mean it.” Irving pulls his sister into a tight hug, gives Teagan a firm slap on the back, and steps aside.
Galinor moves forward, bidding his older brother and sister-in-law goodbye. “Do be careful,” he says to Teagan.
“We always are,” the prince assures him. The brothers look nothing alike. Galinor is broad and gallant, Teagan is lean, lanky, and bookish. Despite the differences, they get along well. I know Galinor worries as much as Irving, but he’s not as vocal about it.
“Yes, you’re always careful. Oh, except for that one time,” Rosie feels the need to add.
Teagan shakes his head, taking the ribbing in his good-natured way. “Yes, except that time.”
After a few more goodbyes, and a bit more heckling, Marigold and Teagan step inside the carriage.
Everyone waves as they leave, and just when they’re almost out of earshot, Irving shouts, “And stay clear of manticores!”
As a group, we linger in the courtyard until the carriage leaves the castle grounds and turns a corner, out of sight.
“Now what can we do to pass the time?” Irving eyes me, looking very much like he’s hoping for a distraction. “Perhaps we should help Bran find a wife.”
Elle shifts, suddenly finding a crack in the cobblestones extremely interesting.
“Let you choose?” I ask Irving, trying not to focus on Elle. “I almost cower at the thought. Out of morbid curiosity, who would you pick?”
Irving pretends to think about it, taking his time, smirking in a way that makes me wish I didn’t ask. “It’s a hard decision—so much more than finding someone willing to put up with your sorry self, I’m afraid. You must choose a queen—someone regal, someone your people will look up to and adore. She must be poised, and beautiful, of course—”
“Naturally,” I interrupt dryly.
He flashes Audette a grin. “Obedient…”
“Not on your life,” she laughs.
“…Sweet,” he continues.
Elle rolls her eyes, which doesn’t escape Irving’s notice. He watches her without watching her, and I realize what he’s doing.
“What about Muriel of Lauramore?” he asks me, nodding to a young woman in a group of girls by the fountain.
“No.” Pippa doesn’t even bother to turn. “Alexander flitted around her for a while. She’s terribly needy, and she cries all the time. Beautiful sunset? She’s weeping. New litter of puppies? Tears for days.”
“Hmmm,” Irving says, still subtly eying Elle. “What about Rynna? Harold of Lenrook’s sister?”
Before I can answer, Elle murmurs something to Pippa, excusing herself. I try not to let my eyes linger on her since I don’t want to validate Irving’s suspicions, but it’s an impossible task. I watch her from the corner of my eye, wishing to follow her but commanding myself to stay.
Irving smirks as soon as she’s through the entry doors. “I was right. You’re taken with her.”
I feign disinterest. “With Rynna? I’m afraid you’re not as astute as you’d like to believe.”
He levels me with a look that makes me want to squirm like a young boy caught red-handed. “Have you even spoken with her since you brought her to the castle? Inquired to see how she’s doing?”
“No—”
“What kind of king are you?” he demands, looping an arm around Audette’s back and pulling her close to his side. “Sitting up on your pedestal, looking down on the world with disinterest?”
“Irving—”
“Well, go on,” Irving coaxes. “You can’t drag an unconscious woman from the sea and then cast her aside.”
I turn to Audette. “How do you live with him?”
“You learn to block him out.”
“Don’t be daft, man. I’m giving you the perfect excuse.” He shoves me toward the castle. “Go. Talk to her.”
I cast an uncertain look at Pippa, who only shrugs, and then I meet Anwen’s gaze. She gives me an encouraging smile, subtly jerking her chin toward the doors. And I give in.
“I should probably see how she’s doing,” I say slowly. “Just to be civil.”
“Tell yourself that if it helps,” Irving says with a laugh.
I glare at him, but there’s no anger behind it. With a deep breath, I turn on my heel and head toward the castle.
Just to be civil, I really should check on her. It’s as good an excuse as any.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Elodie
You’re a fool, I think as I hurry from the courtyard. You’re not for him. He’s not for you. You don’t even feel that way about him, not really. You’re attracted to his handsome build and warm, smiling eyes.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I can’t even properly chastise myself because I don’t remember my own wretched name.
As I walk, I push at the fog, growing good and angry. I’m done living in the dark. It’s time I remember. It’s there; I feel it. It’s mine, and I want it back.
My boots— beautiful things made of the softest leather—click against the stone floor, filling the hall with sound. Though the castle is abuzz with maids, stewards, and other people who make living here as easy as breathing, the sounds they create as they go about their daily tasks are muted so as not to offend the royalty and their noble visitors.
Growling under my breath, I fight the fog, ignoring the inevitable dizziness that follows. I’ve been battling two types of pain—this one, which feels like a real war between an actual adversary and the other, the sickly kind that acts as an invisible puppet string, pulling me in ways I cannot travel.
This is the one I can manage.
“Elle,” a man calls from behind me, but I’m so consumed, it barely registers.
The fog fights, biting back, warning me to give in and live in simple, happy confusion.
“Elle?”
I jerk at the hand on my arm and whirl around.
Bran steps back, startled by my reaction. Immediately, he shoves his thumbs in his belt—a move that makes him seem less a king and more the man I came to know on the beach. “Are you all right? I hollered several times, but you seemed lost in your own world.”
“It’s not my name,” I say, my shoulders slumping with frustration.
For just a moment, I let myself forget I haven’t talked to him in a week—forget why I’ve distanced myself.
“I didn’t recognize it,” I explain. As an afterthought, I add, my tone slightly acerbic, “Your Majesty.”
I thought I’d forgiven him, but just addressing him thusly causes irritation to bubble inside me.
The king’s answering grin is fast and so real it almost takes my breath away. “There’s an amazing amount of contempt in those two words,” he feels the need to point out.
Biting my tongue, I give him a sweeping curtsy. “Your Majesty,” I say again, my tone softer this time even though I want to lash out for no real reason other than he’s not the man I thought him to be.
Bran takes a step forward, as careful as someone who’s confronting a particularly ornery viper. “I liked it better the first time.”
I eye him, not sure how to answer.
“What is this fire? Is this new?” The grin never dims, but it becomes crooked—and a little too appealing. “Or are you perhaps feeling more yourself?”
Indulging in the desire to feel sorry for myself, just for a moment, I step back. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re angry with me.” He crosses his arms, eying me. “Because I’ve stayed away.”
“What right do I have to feel anything for you?” I cock my head to the side, peering at him. “I assure you, you are high above me, too far removed to think of.”
“And yet you don’t have a problem with Pippa or Anwen or even Audette, who is a queen.”
I narrow my eyes, not liking him very much right now.
“You are angry,” he says, sounding almost pleased.
“Don’t
you have that woman from Lauramore to woo? Perhaps Lord Whoever’s sister from Lenrook?”
And now I sound jealous, and I’m not, not really. I just…miss him, I suppose. I miss watching him struggle with his badly twisted fishing net as he told me stories of Triblue and the exploits from his youth. Now I realize how careful he was to leave out certain details—such as the fact that he grew up in the castle.
Bran arches a brow but blatantly ignores my question, for which I’m grateful. “Pippa says you’re still suffering from headaches.”
I continue down the hall, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. Maybe hoping he’ll follow.
What is wrong with me? I’ve already dwelled on this far longer than I should. I know the path I must take, the right path.
I turn back so abruptly, I take Bran by surprise. He’s right behind me—a little closer than I even dared to hope.
His hands fly to my waist to steady me as I crash into him. We stare at each other for one breath…two. His eyes are so brown, so warm and inviting.
After I give myself a good mental shake, I remember my purpose for turning back. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asks, his hands still on the sides of my waist, his palms radiating warmth.
“I have no right to be bitter,” I whisper, conscious of the lack of space between us. “I’m so grateful for all you’ve done for me, and I wish you the best.”
He searches my eyes. I’m not sure what he finds there, but his gaze darkens, and his fingers tighten. We stand here in the very public hall, too close, neither of us moving.
“Do you have a moment you could spare?” he asks, his voice a fraction lower than before.
“I have several pressing engagements in fact,” I say, my voice strangely breathless as I try to lighten our position. “I’m going to visit the hound master and ask if he’ll let me see the new puppies Archer spoke of. I might wander the gardens after that, perhaps watch clouds for a while. Oh, and I was thinking of learning the harp—I mustn’t put that off any longer.”
Bran grins, and it makes me far happier than it should. “Would you come with me?”
“Where?”
He steps back and holds out his hand. I stare at it, wondering if I dare. After several moments, I set my palm in his. Smiling, he tugs me down the hall. He doesn’t say a word as we wind through the castle, finally climbing a circling staircase that can lead to nowhere but a tower overlooking the city.
“Where are we—”
Before I finish the words, Bran pushes open a door at the top, revealing a circular room fitted with tall glass panels. The view of the sea is spectacular, and I walk toward the window, enchanted. “It’s beautiful.”
“I stumbled on it years ago when I needed a little solitude,” he says, joining me. “No one comes up here. I’m not sure many people know how to find it besides the maids.”
I touch the glass. Even at this height and distance, I feel as if I’m connected with the infinite sea. There’s an island near the coast, not far in the distance.
Isle Merrily, my mind supplies. The island where Triblue’s wild horses roam.
It’s so very frustrating that I can recall little things, trivial things, and yet everything important is under lock and key.
“I remember how you enjoyed watching the water,” he says, his tone carefully light. “And I thought you might like to know it’s here for days when you don’t want to venture to the shore.”
I turn to the new king, studying his profile. He looks pensive, melancholy even.
It hits me that though Bran’s surrounded by hundreds of people—people who are literally at his beck and call both day and night, he just might be as lonely as I am. Maybe just as lost.
After a while, he turns his back on the window and sits on the ledge, facing me. “How are you adjusting to life in the castle?”
“Well enough.”
“Have you remembered anything?”
“Nothing that matters.”
He’s quiet for so long, I think the conversation’s over, but then he continues, “I haven’t forgotten my promise.”
“You’ve been understandably busy.”
“I’ll find your family.”
It’s still afternoon, but the sun is making its way toward the western horizon. Saltwreath bustles below us. There are people everywhere—on the streets, driving carts, loitering on the piers. I turn back to Bran. “What if they don’t want to be found?”
He meets my gaze and gently flicks my arm. “Then I suppose I’ll keep you.”
Longing blooms in my chest. It spreads, the sensation lazy and warm. For two weeks, I’ve wanted to discover who I am and where I fit in the world. But now, for the first time, I think I might rather stay in the fog, walk away from the life I don’t remember and replace the forgotten memories with new ones.
I raise my hand to the glass once more, this time studying the ring—something I find myself doing often. Bran follows my gaze and frowns in a thoughtful way.
“May I be honest?” he asks.
I nod.
He stands, taking his time and stretching, and then he taps my finger. “I loathe your ring.”
A laugh bubbles from my chest, unexpected. I study his face, catalog the little things unique to Bran alone—the small, faint scar on his left temple, the flecks of amber in his liquid brown eyes, the way he smells of citrus and faint lavender—even the bowed shape of his top lip.
I want to kiss him. I want to press my mouth to his, close my eyes, and discover his lips. Match him breath for breath, revel in the sweet connection.
But I don’t act on the thought, and not because I fear Bran will push me away.
No, it’s not that. Even though he has so many people who care for him, he seems alone. The new king needs an ally. And I could desperately use one as well.
Yes, we could indulge in a brief affair, something quick and burning. But in just a few months, Bran must choose a wife. I don’t want us to end like that, with heartache and regret.
If that means we must remain friends, keep our distance while growing closer, then so be it.
I’d rather have Bran as a friend than not have him at all.
“You’ve grown quiet,” Bran says, interrupting my thoughts.
I smile, deciding I can guard my heart, and turn again to the sea. The way the light falls on the city, with the ocean just beyond, fills me with a desire to capture it, remember the moment. It triggers a memory, a solitary, personal one the fog allows to filter through.
“I think I remember something,” I say softly.
Bran tenses, almost if that’s a bad thing.
“I think I paint.”
“Paint?”
I nod. “I’m not sure, but I have a feeling I’m skilled.”
A curious look crosses the king’s face. “Well then, fair lady artist, let us find you a canvas.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Elodie
I’m a horrible artist, no better than a three-year-old.
Growling, I fling my paintbrush on the garden cobblestones, disgusted with myself. This felt so right, and the memory…
But from the atrocious mess on the canvas in front of me, it’s obvious it’s nothing but wrong.
I’ve been trying for weeks, believing that it would come back if I kept at it, yet I have nothing to show for it. Every day, I come here to paint. And, if I’m honest, to escape Bran.
At his advisor’s insistence, he’s been getting to know the visiting ladies—he calls them peacocks, which I rather like—trying to find one suitable to be Triblue’s queen.
Because we’re friends, I encourage him, assure him he’s doing the right thing. Because we’re friends, I don’t imagine courting the king myself. Don’t let myself daydream of his sweet smiles or kind eyes. And I certainly don’t let my mind wander to the few memories I have of him briefly shirtless in the sea cottage.
Tanned…toned…
Enough.
I bring myself back
to the present. Fortunately, there was no one walking on the garden path nearby to witness my paint-brush-throwing hissy fit. Sighing, I reach down and pick up the brush. Bits of dirt stick to the green paint, mocking me.
“What is that supposed to be?” Pippa asks from behind me, laughing in her bright, unhindered way.
I cringe and turn slowly.
The princess stands with her youngest son. His name is Kiernan, and at four years old, he’s a handful. Truthfully, all of Pippa’s children are handfuls, to put it mildly, but Kiernan might be the worst because he’s such a little charmer.
He blinks his blue-green eyes at me, smiling under short locks of chestnut hair that shine more red than brown in the sun. He wears a cloak of innocence to hide the miscreant underneath. He’s going to be even more trouble when he’s older.
Looking down, I wipe my brush on a rag. “It was supposed to be those flowers over there.”
I motion to a cluster of pink and white daisies. They are delicate things, growing low to the ground. They appeared easy enough to capture, but looks can be deceiving.
“My mother paints,” Pippa says, sitting on the stone bench next to me. “I myself am horrible, possibly worse than you.”
Frowning, I look at my canvas and then raise a questioning eyebrow in her direction.
She laughs and bumps my shoulder in a teasing way. “All right, maybe I’m not that bad.”
“It felt so right before I started,” I tell her. “I could see it all—the paints, the canvas—even the way I felt while I worked. So at peace.”
Kiernan wanders the little garden alcove, poking in the dirt, looking for insects.
“It might come back,” Pippa says softly, no longer joking. “You must give it time.”
“That’s all everyone says.”
Before she can answer, voices filter to us from just down the path. Castle Calland’s garden is an elaborate maze of private nooks and rooms. Some of the tall hedges are made entirely of roses, while others are thick privets. It’s a beautiful place, but it reminds me of something. The garden itself doesn’t tug at the memory—it’s the labyrinth.
Elodie of the Sea Page 11